Necessary
by Lea of Mirkwood
Summary: [Young Guns] Yen Scurlock in New York City, 1881, recieves a letter from New Mexico about her husband, Josiah (alias Doc) who has been missing for the last two months. Doc/Yen pairing. No slash.


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Necessary

Lea of Mirkwood

Rating: G

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Doc. But I don't. I don't own anything but the words.

Explanation: I'm a total Doc/Yen shipper, and yet I write my own romance with Doc privately. What's wrong with me?

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Yen Scurlock received a letter from New Mexico. She normally wouldn't pay much attention to a letter like that from so far away, but the person she would give them to, her husband, had been missing for almost two months now. The postmark was from a month ago, and the letter was smudged and written hastily, the address of their humble New York City apartment almost illegible, even to Yen's eyes. She had recently been taught to write in English by her husband, the lessons beginning on their train from Roswell to New York, in between kisses with her newlywed husband, Josiah G. Scurlock.

She sat down at the little table in the hall and reached for the letter opener, sliding the metal tip underneath the flap of the envelope and ripping the paper apart. She reached inside and pulled out a larger sized letter written in a bold blocky hand. Enclosed inside it was a smaller piece of paper, this one written in a slightly crabbed, scratchy writing. She set down the smaller piece to read once she finished the first one, since it seemed that the larger one was meant to be read first. The first few lines she skimmed through, they were only saying that the writer was the sheriff of Lincoln County, but he did not name his name. The next few lines nearly made Yen's heart stop with horror. No, she thought. She must have read that wrong. But there it was. She couldn't excuse the terrible news by blaming it on her fractured English. The words were as plain as day. _I regret you inform you that your husband is dead._

Yen let out a pained cry and nearly dropped the letter, but straightened out the paper with shaking fingers, determined to read the rest. 

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He was shot by a companion of mine. I express my deepest condolences for your loss. My intention was to capture him and his companions alive, save one William H. Bonney, who we meant to execute. Your husband was never meant to be harmed in any way. I did know the man, and he only spoke of returning home to his wife and child.

Yen felt small tears falling down her pale cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. She ran her fingertips across the paper, wishing that her touch was magic and she could change the words to make them say something else, but they stayed the same, stubbornly. She read on.

Enclosed is a letter from his friend, that same William H. Bonney that some call Billy the Kid. He wished expressly that this be delivered to you.

Signed, 

Sheriff Patrick Floyd Garrett

Yen's trembling fingers picked up the second slip of paper and flattened it out. The thin scrap was yellowed, and the ink on it was browned and splotchy, as if written with a cheap pen. A small brown dot in the corner discolored the almost only clean place on the paper, and it looked suspiciously like blood.

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Dear Mrs. Scurlock, read the little note. _Dear Mrs. Scurlock_. Yen had always liked reading her new name, but now it was a painful way of addressing, because she was a widow.

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Dear Mrs. Scurlock,

Your husband was a good man. Doc died saving all of us. The last thing he said before he got shot was "I've got to get home." His last words were "Let's finish the game." If I get out of here, I'll come up to New York and tell you what that meant, but if I don't I guess you can ask Doc yourself in about forty years when you go join him. I know I'll miss him. But don't worry. He's the kind that would watch over you when you're in trouble, so he's not really gone. I'm sorry he's gone. He was like a brother to me.

Respectfully,

William H. Bonney, alias Billy the Kid

Yen felt tears welling up in her eyes. She did know what that meant. Doc had told her every story John Tunstall had ever told him, and he'd written them down in his little black notebook. He had planned to tell them to his children when they were old enough to understand. Yen tried to keep her grief at bay while she remembered the story of the three Chinamen playing fantan. Yen had always liked that, and one day she even explained to him what fantan was. Her thoughts were running crazily around in her head, disjointed like scraps of paper flying around in the streets and alleyways of New York City. The scattered ideas finally formed themselves into one thing she could think about before collapsing completely.

Necessary.

She was necessary to Doc, and he to her. That was the first solid concept she learned about the English language beyond rudimentary speaking skills. The first abstract idea put into her head. Every night before dropping off to sleep, Doc would take her face in his hands and look her in the eyes.

"Necessary," he would say firmly. "You are necessary to me, Yen."

Then he would kiss her softly and they would sleep, the thought that they were loved floating around in their heads. Necessary. She was necessary.

With that thought and bittersweet memory in her mind, Yen placed her head in her hands and began to weep. She didn't think about her future without a husband or source of income, she didn't think about the fate of Willam H. Bonney, she didn't think about the identity of Sheriff Patrick Floyd Garrett, she thought about the idea that she would never again see Doc's sparkling green eyes when she woke up in the morning. She would never again hear his soft voice tell her she was necessary. She would never kiss him again. She would never see him kiss his child good night again. She would never hear his laughter as he taught his students again. She would never feel his hands touch her skin again. She would never speak to him again.

He was gone.

Gone.

The only man she had ever loved, the only man that made her feel that she was worth loving was _dead_. She would never even see his body laid out. He was thousands or hundreds of miles away (She could never remember exactly how far away New Mexico was, but it was a long way), and she wouldn't be able to visit his grave every year. She might never see where he was buried.

"Doc!" she cried out, feeling some invisible hand clench at her heart and shatter it into a million pieces like a dropped mirror. She clenched her fists and sobbed at the unfairness of it all. But soon she lifted up her head at a wailing sound, and realized it was her child. Wiping her tears away, Yen stood up from the table and tried to compose herself.

Then Yen Scurlock walked into the other room to comfort her child.

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